


I Tried to Save Someone Once

by Aenix



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 1940s, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 1940s, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Angst, Bickering, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Sex, First Time, Fix-It, Friendship, Good Tom Riddle, Humor, Hurt, Idiots in Love, M/M, Minor Character Death, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Protectiveness, Romance, Sane Tom Riddle, Sassy Harry Potter, Sexual Tension, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slytherin Harry Potter, Teenage Tom Riddle, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It, Young Tom Riddle
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-16 00:27:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29073285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aenix/pseuds/Aenix
Summary: "I don't know if I can save him. I don't know if that's even possible."In limbo, Harry makes a different choice. Suddenly thrown back to 1942, he comes face-to-face with a young Tom Marvolo Riddle, now a fifth-year Slytherin prefect. An unlikely friendship ensues, and Harry decides to do everything in his power to save the orphan boy from his dark fate. Slow burn, with a good deal of angst and sass.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 66
Kudos: 282





	1. Chapter 1

“Do not pity the dead, Harry,” said Dumbledore. “Pity the living, and above all, those who live without love. By returning, you may ensure that fewer souls are maimed, fewer families are torn apart. If that seems to you a worthy goal, then we say goodbye for the present.”

Harry stood still in the white dreamscape of King’s Cross Station. He knew he had to go back, but something in those words nudged him uncomfortably. _Goodbye for the present._ He didn’t want to go back to the present, to a world so overcome with death and suffering. _Those who live without love._ Was Dumbledore alluding to Voldemort himself? The very monster he was meant to kill?

“What about the souls that have already been maimed? The families that have already been torn apart?”

“We can’t change the past Harry,” Dumbledore said softly.

“But what if I can? What if I can go back to before this all happened?”

“Harry—”

“Love is powerful, you said. It saved me from Voldemort when I was a baby. It saved me today. It brought me here and it’s ready to bring me back. Do you think that perhaps… if I asked… it could bring me someplace else?”

The headmaster frowned to himself.

“ _Tempus subcinctus…_ ” he muttered. “You’re speaking of meddling with time, Harry. The field is dangerous and largely unknown; those who have travelled further than a handful of hours have been met with terrible, terrible fates. And that is not considering the repercussions that may befall everyone else. What if you change things for the worse? What if everyone you know ceases to exist?”

“If it were possible, professor, if the universe allowed it, wouldn’t you have faith in it? In love?”

Perhaps he was being sentimental. Perhaps it was absurd. But Harry had lost too much at this point to care.

“If I could die a thousand deaths to save my friends, I would. In a heartbeat. I would move heaven and earth and time itself if it meant keeping them safe. Please tell me you understand, professor.”

Dumbledore smiled down at Harry; he understood completely. The headmaster pondered for a moment.

“We are in King’s Cross you say?” he said. “Perhaps you would be able to… let’s say… board a train.”

Harry smiled. “Wouldn’t hurt to try.”

* * *

Harry glanced around the clearing in which he stood. The last thing he remembered was talking to Dumbledore, but no matter how hard he racked his brain, he was unable to recall exactly when or how he arrived. He spotted a familiar hut sitting by the edge of a forest, and his confusion was quickly overtaken by delight. Dashing towards Hagrid’s home, Harry laughed for the first time in what felt like forever. He couldn’t believe it. It actually worked! He was back and the battle hadn’t started! Remus, Tonks, Fred, Snape, everyone who was gone, he could save them all. He knocked eagerly on the door and it swung open.

“Eh? What do you want?” grunted a short, wiry man who was clearly not Hagrid.

Harry stepped back in surprise. “I, er… is Hagrid here?”

“Hagrid?” the man asked. “Who’s Hagrid?”

Harry frowned. “Sorry, who are you?”

“Ogg. Gamekeeper.”

“Gamekeeper! But…” Harry fumbled for his words.

Ogg the gamekeeper huffed, clearly running out of patience. “Yes, that’s what I said. Now scurry off! I’ve no time for children and nonsense.”

He slammed the door shut, and Harry stood uneasily in place.

_Where am I?_

He had only meant to go back a few months, far enough at the most to save Sirius. But Hagrid had been Hogwarts’s gamekeeper for decades, since before his parents were even born. Perhaps something had gone terribly wrong…

_No. Have faith. You must be here for a reason._

Harry headed off towards the castle. The sun was set by the time he arrived, and he shivered in the cool evening air. A creaking of wagons rolled out from the distance. He peered closely, recognising the carriages and winged reptilian horses that pulled them. Thestrals. So it was the first day of school, he figured. What year though, he had no idea. He found a side door and slipped into the castle.

The school seemed… normal. Friendly. Nothing stood out differently. The stone walls and majestic archways rose high and felt like home. He took a deep breath—it smelled like home too. His footsteps echoed in the hallway as he wandered aimlessly about. Someone behind him cleared his throat.

“Can I help you?” an all-too-familiar voice asked.

Harry swivelled around. “Dumbledore!”

The slightly younger-looking professor peered down at him. “I do not seem to recall you as one of my students, young man.”

“Oh… I’m Harry. My name is Harry Potter, sir.”

Harry hesitated, grappling over whether or not to tell the truth.

_It’s Dumbledore._

“You’re right, I’m not a student here. I actually won’t be for many years. I seem to have fallen through time, sir, and you’ve been a mentor to me for much of my life. Your favourite sweets are sherbet lemons, you have a taste for muggle knitting patterns, and you see yourself holding a pair of woollen socks when you look into the Mirror of Erised, or at least, that was what you told me when I asked you. Will tell me, rather.”

Dumbledore gazed thoughtfully at the earnest boy in front of him. An awareness seemed to flash through his eyes just as Harry felt a slight nudge in his mind. “Ah, yes… I’m afraid you seem quite correct, Mr Potter. I suppose then, that you plan on staying here for a while?”

Harry laughed. He had missed the old wizard. “You believe me?”

Dumbledore hummed. “You do not seem to me a liar, my boy. As fascinating as your tale is, I assume that you must be here for a reason. Such happenings do not simply go about occurring every fortnight, after all. Now, I will not encroach on your duties; I am sure that you have an impending task of great importance lying ahead of you. In the meantime, however, I will be more than willing to help you settle in as a new student of Hogwarts.”

Harry was surprised to find himself struck with emotion. Of course Dumbledore would believe him. Even when separated by decades in time and detached from all memory of his pupil, the wizard still had faith in him. Seeing him at the dreamscape had felt muted and ethereal, like an out-of-body experience. But now, the professor was truly here and in the flesh. His younger age had no impact on his being. In fact, he seemed to stand taller and carry a greater air of assurance. The pain of his death suddenly boiled up in Harry’s chest, and he forced himself to swallow it down. This had to be the right place.

“I would be much grateful, sir.”

As they made their way to the Headmaster’s Office, Harry realised that he still had no idea what year it was.

“Excuse me, Professor, but what exactly is the date?”

Dumbledore chuckled. “We are currently in the first of September in 1942, Mr Potter.”

Harry froze in his tracks. “1942!”

“Not what you were expecting?”

“I… suppose I’ll find out.”

He shook his head. It was fine. He just had to stick with it a bit longer to figure out why he was here. Yes, that had to be it.

They arrived at the stone gargoyle guarding the Headmaster’s Tower. _“Veritas,”_ announced Dumbledore, and they made their way upwards.

The office was better organised, although Fawkes was nowhere to be seen. A short, balding man rummaged through a bookshelf in the corner.

Dumbledore cleared his throat. “Apologies for the intrusion, Armando, but I have with me a student by the name of Harry Potter. Harry, this is Headmaster Armando Dippet.”

The man turned around, and Harry came forwards to shake his hand.

“Pleased to meet you, Headmaster.”

The old wizard seemed awfully frail, but his eyes were alert as he studied the boy. “And what are the circumstances of your arrival, Mr Potter?”

Harry glanced at Dumbledore, who nodded in encouragement.

“I was sent here from the future, sir. I have an important task to do, and Professor Dumbledore has agreed to make me a student in the meantime.”

Dippet was speechless for a moment, then turned to Dumbledore.

“You are among my most trusted, Albus. You vouch for this boy?”

Dumbledore nodded. “I had a glimpse of his mind. His intentions are true.” He gave Harry a wink. “Nothing to fear, Harry; I merely saw an image of you wielding the Sword of Gryffindor.”

Dippet raised a brow at the boy. “That is no small feat. I once was a Gryffindor myself, you know.” He stroked his beard in thought. “Very well, Mr Potter, Hogwarts will open its doors for you. You may stay until your mission is completed. No need to divulge any details—time travel is a delicate matter, as I am sure you have been warned. You are a Hogwarts student in your time, yes? So you already know the workings and whereabouts of the castle. We will sort you into your House tonight in order to avoid confusion with the other students. Dumbledore can work out a class schedule for you by tomorrow.”

Harry was grateful for his ties to Gryffindor. The two professors’ apparent trust—however painfully biased—certainly made things easier for him.

“Thank you, sir,” he said.

Dippet nodded. “You seem around fifteen or sixteen years of age. Am I correct to presume that you are to begin your fifth year of studies?”

Harry frowned. He touched his cheek and noticed that his stubble was gone. But to be mistaken for a fifth year? He spotted a nearby mirror on the wall.

“Oh…” he whispered, quickly understanding.

What he saw was indeed his own reflection, but the Harry who stared back at him couldn’t have been older than sixteen. For some reason, he found himself smiling. “Yes, fifth year it is.”

Dumbledore cleared his throat. “Well then, I suppose everything is more or less in order. I’ll be showing Mr Potter to the Great Hall.”

* * *

Glances and whispers were thrown about the Hall as students took notice of the new student. Harry stood awkwardly behind the first years at the back of the sorting queue, smoothing out his new uniform. It felt lighter and squeezed his torso rather uncomfortably, the grey blazer a sharp contrast to the loose black robes he was accustomed to. He supposed it looked more fashionable, though the girls’ antiquated gymslips were a rather frumpy reminder of the time period he was in.

He glanced around the hall, examining the curious faces that stared back at him. Strange couldn’t even begin to describe how he was feeling. The students here looked jarringly out of place with their surroundings, like actors who had wandered onto the wrong film set. With their old-fashioned clothes and elaborately styled hair, they could have easily fit into one of Dudley’s private Muggle schools. Harry blinked twice, half-expecting to see the world in black-and-white. But the harsh, vibrant colours and all-too-human faces only added to the otherworldly realness of where he was.

As the first years were sorted into their Houses, the number of eyes being laid on him steadily increased until he stood alone at the front of the Hall. Finally, Dippet declared his presence. “Now everyone, I am pleased to announce that we will be welcoming a new fifth-year student. Harry Potter, if you would please come up.”

Harry approached and sat down on the wooden chair. The Sorting Hat was placed on his head.

“Well, well,” muttered a voice in his ear, “what do we have here? We meet again, Harry Potter.”

“You know who I am!” Harry whispered.

The hat gave a small chuckle. “I am not so bound by the laws of this world as you are.”

“Will you tell me why I’m here? I don’t understand how I could possibly help my friends this far back in time.”

“I’m afraid I cannot. It is a rather… unusual path that you have charted for yourself. You must pave its way alone.”

Harry heard murmurs in the Hall and realised he was taking unusually long. He sighed. “Well in that case, let’s get to it then.”

“Yes, I see that you have changed much since we last met. I see the pain that you carry with you every waking moment. You are no longer the little boy who pleaded for Gryffindor.”

“I suppose you still want me in Slytherin?”

“You do not?”

Harry paused. He had always wondered what his life would have been like if he had chosen differently all those years ago. This was a chance to branch off, start fresh. He made a quick decision. “Perhaps it is time for a change. After all, my friends don’t even exist yet.”

“Yes, Mr Potter… I think Slytherin is where you will find what you are looking for.”

Before Harry could ask what it meant, the hat reared back and shouted, “Slytherin!”

Thin applause trickled from the rightmost table. The other students looked somewhat dismayed upon hearing that the new arrival was yet another power-hungry Slytherin zealot.

Harry’s mind reeled with unease. Was he a fraud for disregarding his Gryffindor legacy? Should he feel guilty for rejecting the House where he had found his friends, found himself? Was he dishonouring the sacrifices his parents had made? He didn’t want to lose his identity, and yet, a part of him yearned for that clean slate. It hurt to think that he was being selfish, but Harry was back to square one. He could be anyone he wanted to be. He could invent an entirely new persona if he so wished. It was a powerful, dreamlike feeling.

Harry pictured his friends. Hermione’s nose scrunched up in her studies. Ron stuffing his face with meat pie. He saw his mother. _“You’ve been so brave…”_

No. A thousand desires couldn’t overcome the love he had for his family.

 _Stay close to me,_ he thought, as made his way to the Slytherin table. Maybe it was all right for him to play a part, put on a show, but he would never let go of his past.

His Housemates’ faces were intrigued but vigilant. He would have to be careful. These people would likely double-cross him the moment he showed weakness. He cursed himself, realising his decision to go with Slytherin had put a target on his back. He found an empty seat amongst the older students and sat down without a word.

“Potter, you say? You must be a pure-blood then.”

Harry glanced to his right and saw a black-haired boy peering fixedly at him. He had a handsome face and his stormy blue eyes flashed something mischievous. Harry thought carefully of his next words. Should he attempt to make conversation? Would it be worth brushing aside his morals for the sake of blending in? It would be nothing more than an act. He couldn’t see himself staying any longer than a few weeks. He smiled at his Housemate. “The Potters are a pure-blood family after all.” He reached out a hand. “I’m Harry.”

The boy gave him a rather adorable lopsided grin and shook his hand. “Acacias Lestrange. Call me Ace.”

Harry’s smile fell. Suddenly he was back in the Death Chamber, watching helplessly as Sirius slipped into a murky veil and Bellatrix cackled behind him. Acacius squinted, concerned. “You all right, Potter?”

Harry blinked, then forced a cheerful grin. “Yes, yes. Just lost in thought. I’ve never been in a room so crowded with other students before.”

“Oh?” Acacius cocked his head. “You were homeschooled then?”

“Yes,” said Harry, spotting numerous faces that turned attentively in his direction, “but with Grindelwald’s forces growing stronger, my family thought it best that I come to the safety of Hogwarts for my final year.”

His Housemates nodded. The lies came easily to him, Harry noticed.

“Homeschooled… that’s interesting,” came a pretty voice from across the table.

Harry looked over, promptly losing his breath. The girl who spoke was stunningly beautiful, with luxurious brown curls, porcelain-smooth skin, and sparkling green eyes that mirrored his own. She leaned closer, and Harry couldn’t help but notice the way her hair slipped softly in front of her face.

“And what made your parents decide that?” she asked.

Harry quickly flashed her a smile. “Perhaps I excel too much at what I do.”

He didn’t mean for it to come across as flirting but supposed it was all right. The girl laughed—it was a pretty laugh—and Acacius patted his back.

“Oh, Tom won’t like that,” piped a scrawny blonde boy. “He’s the only one who ‘excels’ around here.”

Harry followed his gaze to a figure sitting at the far end of the table. He nearly choked.

They stared at each other for a moment, black eyes boring into green, neither moving. The world seemed to freeze as Harry gazed into the pale face of Tom Riddle.

_This is why. This is the reason._

Harry immediately understood: he had been sent back so he could kill Riddle before he ever became the Dark Lord. Everything clicked into place as he sat paralysed in his seat, eyes flashing murder at the monster before him.

_You killed my mother. My father._

All the hate, all the anguish and heartbreak that Harry kept so delicately pushed to the side seemed to flood into him at once and set fire to his blood. A blazing inferno ate through his chest and screamed at him to run to the beast and butcher. It. Down.

_No. Not here._

He swallowed his rage with a shudder and promised to wait.

_You’ll get your chance._

Riddle frowned at him. Harry recalled that Voldemort was a skilled Legilimens and hastily constructed a brick wall in his mind. He pushed the barrier outwards, and Riddle narrowed his eyes. As they glowered at each other, Harry couldn’t help but be astounded by what appeared to be the face of an angel. Riddle had indeed looked very handsome in the diary, but seeing him in person was something he had been entirely unprepared for. Harry stared in awe at the boy’s carve-cut features. His elegant brows, sideswept curls, and wintry black eyes all seemed to embody the very essence of aristocracy. He wore allurement on his sleeve as easily as one might wear a watch.

At last, they were interrupted by Acacius. “You haven’t eaten, Potter.”

Harry turned to the Slytherins, who had all noticed the odd confrontation.

“You know him?” asked Acacius, nodding in Riddle’s direction.

“No,” Harry lied. He glanced back at Riddle, who was now fully absorbed in his meal and taking no notice of the people around him.

“You seem to have caught his interest,” said Acacius. “That never happens.”

Harry swallowed down his emotions; he would panic later. For now, he was going to play the part. “Who is he?”

“He,” said Acacius, “is our darling dearest Tom Marvolo Riddle. Hogwarts’s very own residential feast for the eyes. Largely keeps to himself though, especially now that he’s been made prefect.”

“That he does.” The pretty girl rolled her eyes. “Apparently, none of us are good enough for him.”

“Oh shush, Marcella, you just want him in your bed.”

Marcella chucked a piece of bread at Acacius. “As if you never made a run at it! Horny bastard.”

The Slytherins broke into laughter, and Harry couldn’t help but smile. They didn’t sound at all like the uptight pure-bloods he had been expecting. He spent the rest of the meal conversing with the nearby fifth-years. There was Dunstan Mulciber, a sturdy brute of a boy who barely spoke a word; Morris Nott, a greasy freckled boy who made a show of complaining about the food; Marcella Lowe, who sat apart from the other girls further down the table; Alphard Black, who Harry realised with a start was Sirius’s uncle; Callum Rosier, a golden-haired, athletic-looking boy with a soft smile; and Ben Avery, the scraggly blonde who continued to interject and boast of Riddle’s achievements.

After the horrors of war, it was strange to find himself in such a warm environment. At times, Harry could almost forget about the past few months and laugh along with the other Slytherins. But then he would catch a glimpse of Riddle far away, quietly eating his food, and it would all come flooding back to him. He forced the smile off his face. He wasn’t here to make friends. He had a job to do, a monster to kill.

When the feast ended, Harry followed his housemates to the dormitories, brushing past Riddle without so much as a glance. It seemed almost a cruel joke when the boy trailed behind Harry and his new roommates into their dorm room. Upon realising that his assigned bed was the one right next to the prefect’s, Harry groaned out loud, earning a questioning glance from Acacius. If Riddle noticed though, he didn’t let on. He hadn’t uttered a single word that evening. He didn't even look in anyone’s direction as he unpacked his things, much to Harry’s annoyance.

Among the five dorm members were Harry, Riddle, Acacius, Ben, and Morris, though only Acacius seemed glad of Harry’s company. A brown trunk lay next to his bed, and inside he found a set of plain pyjamas, some toiletries, textbooks, and other school supplies courtesy of Dumbledore. He would have to thank the professor later, not that he would need most of the items. The boys quickly showered and said goodnight.

Hours later, Harry lay wide awake as the recent battle looped and replayed in his head. Smoking rubble, grimy faces, awful flashes of green light… it could all be avoided if Voldemort was killed. He turned to the sleeping figure on his right, a boy whose face shone so beautifully under the silver moonlight. Harry could save them all.

He sat up and looked around. The emerald tint of the room felt sinister and unnatural. He was used to the golden warmth of the Gryffindor dormitories. Here, the fireplace burned green and the stone walls felt cold.

_It doesn’t matter. You won’t be staying another night._

Harry quietly rolled out of bed and approached Riddle. He took out his wand—or rather, Draco Malfoy’s wand, as his own was broken and stuck half a century in the future—and pointed it, glowering, at the boy’s exposed neck.

But he couldn’t bring himself to utter the two words.

_Fuck._

So Harry climbed back into bed and cried softly to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed! I'll be updating as regularly as I possibly can with all the assignments I'm procrastinating on. This happens to be my first attempt at writing fanfiction, so I'm really looking forward to any feedback you may have. Next chapter, we'll see Harry attend his first potions class of 1942...


	2. Chapter 2

Harry woke to the sound of low voices.

“It was Potter,” someone whined. Morris, Harry assumed.

“I could hardly sleep with all that moaning. You’d think he was shagging some fourth-year.” That would be Ben.

“Jealous much?” That was definitely Acacius.

“Shut up, all of you.” Harry didn’t recognise the third voice; it sounded particularly silver-tongued. _Riddle_ , he realised with a shudder. He sat up and rubbed his eyes.

“Bad dreams, Potter?” Ben was eyeing him with a smirk. “Who’s Cedric? Your boyfriend?”

Harry scowled. “None of your business.” He locked eyes with Riddle, then proceeded to grumble unintelligibly.

“Well come on then, hurry up,” said Ben as he left with the others. “We’re not losing points because of you.”

Harry changed into his uniform and went to brush his teeth. He saw movement out of the corner of his eye and suddenly caught Riddle’s reflection in the mirror.

“Bloody hell!” He spun around, reaching instinctively towards his wand.

Riddle studied his movements and seemed to think carefully of his next words. “Have I done something to upset you?” he asked smoothly.

Harry blinked. He had no idea how to respond to that. He had no idea what to expect from the other boy. The Killing Curse, perhaps? Most certainly not the unassuming question that had just been asked. He was at a loss for words. “I… uh…” He shook his head and gathered his wits. It was probably one of Riddle’s psychological tricks to catch him off guard. He would absolutely not be dumbstruck in front of his enemy. “No, of course you haven’t.” He glowered at the boy, toothbrush in mouth.

_Good. That was good._

Riddle didn’t seem to think so. He stared at the toothpaste dribbling down Harry’s chin and raised an eyebrow.

As much as he tried not to, Harry slowly dropped his scowl. It felt sad knowing such a beautiful face would eventually turn so poisoned and grotesque.

 _Stop._ This was Voldemort. This was the face of a killer. He was in his fifth year, which meant he had already murdered his family. A Horcrux had already been made in his name. Harry blanched. How could he forget? He couldn’t kill Riddle without first destroying the ring on his finger. How the hell was he supposed to do that?

Harry spat out his toothpaste and resumed his glare, but a split second too late. Riddle had seen the flicker of pity on his face.

“Would you like to accompany me for breakfast?” he asked, studying Harry with inscrutable black eyes.

Brown eyes, Harry realised. They were dark brown, not quite black. Before he could refuse—

“Fine.”

Riddle smiled.

And Harry’s brain did a vault.

It was thoroughly disconcerting. A small upturn of the lips, that’s all it was. It didn’t even reach his eyes. But Harry went and followed him out of the room.

* * *

Stolen glances were thrown about as they entered the Great Hall. The two boys made their way down the Slytherin table, with Harry catching sight of his fellow Housemates. They were staring in… shock? Horror? Jealousy? Marcella had frozen in place with her spoon in her mouth. Ben looked downright furious. Acacius widened his eyes like, _What are you doing?_ Harry shrugged. He had no idea.

Riddle found a spot out of range from the others, and they took their seats. Harry preferred it this way; the other boy was a good ten centimetres taller, but at least they were the same height sitting down. They ate their breakfast in silence.

 _Even the way he eats looks respectable,_ Harry thought to himself in annoyance.

A voice rang out through the hall’s morning chatter. “Ah! Tom, my boy!”

Harry glanced up and promptly gagged on a treacle tart. His coughs and sputters filled the air as Horace Slughorn approached the table.

“Professor Slughorn!” came a lively voice from… that wasn’t from Riddle, was it? “Wonderful to see you! How was your summer?”

Harry gawked as Riddle flashed a brilliant smile for the Head of House. His eyes were all crinkled and his mouth was all wide, showcasing a brilliant row of annoyingly perfect teeth. It was frightening how genuinely delighted he looked. It began to register to Harry just how dead charming the prefect could be. He probably had the entire school staff grovelling under that smile—with the exception of Dumbledore, of course.

“Ah, quite lovely indeed! It’s always nice to get a break from all the assignments that need grading.”

Riddle laughed. Harry jumped in his seat.

“Well, you know I would grade them all for you if you asked.”

Slughorn beamed. “Oh, I know you would, Tom. I see you have a mighty selection of courses this term. Shall I be witnessing tremendous results as always?”

“You flatter me, Professor.” Riddle blushed and scratched the back of his neck. “I wouldn’t be half as capable without mentors such as yourself.”

The two continued their prattling as Harry shrivelled further and further into his seat. Riddle was spectacular in the ways Harry wished himself to be. He led the conversation with flattering ease and hit all of Slughorn’s weak spots. Harry found himself involuntarily drawn to the boy and his effortless charisma.

Slughorn eventually noticed Harry’s presence. “And who do we have here!”

Harry tried for a smile, but it came out more as a grimace. “Hello Professor,” he managed to say.

“You must be the newcomer! Harry Potter: talk of the town! Look at you, already making friends with the right people.” He smiled pointedly at Riddle. “And how familiar are you with potions, Mr Potter?”

Harry thought back to his days buried in the Half-Blood Prince’s book. “I’m all right, I suppose.”

No, that wasn’t good enough. Slughorn was actively scouting for new talent and Riddle was sitting right there. Harry had to prove himself.

“My family taught me fairly well over the years,” he continued, “but I’m excited to learn from an actual expert in the field.” He tried for another smile and this time it came out radiantly. _Up your arse, Riddle._

Riddle was watching him closely. Slughorn, on the other hand, smiled leeringly in delight. “That’s good to hear, my boy! I look forwards to seeing you in my class. Tom here has been undefeated for the past four years! It’s about time someone rose up to the challenge.”

Harry glanced at Riddle, who smirked back in an exceedingly annoying fashion. Slughorn proceeded to hand out their class schedules before waddling away. Harry was a little disappointed upon seeing nine courses written on the parchment. It appeared that Dumbledore was not going to let him off easy.

“What have you got?” asked Riddle, apparently back to his usual quiet self.

Harry wished Riddle was less intense about the staring. He seemed to challenge Harry, dare him to break eye contact first. But the former Gryffindor was stubborn; he held the boy’s gaze without so much as a twitch. Riddle, unfortunately, only seemed to appreciate this and stared harder.

“Here, you can have a look.” Harry handed over the parchment.

“We have most of our classes together,” said Riddle. “You’re taking less electives than I am, though.”

“Great.”

Harry didn’t feel like discussing schoolwork, and especially not with Riddle. He had never considered himself book-smart anyway; that was Hermione’s thing. He had always been too focused on saving people’s lives to care much about his studies.

Riddle seemed to catch on. “You’re not curious as to what classes here are like?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Why should I? It’s not as though I’ll use an astronomy curriculum to duel an enemy.”

“You could chuck a telescope at him.”

_Was that a joke?_

“You aren’t funny, Tom.”

Tom’s mouth curved upwards. The bell rang, and he cleared his throat. “I’ll see you in class, Harry.” He gave a nod and left.

So they were on a first-name basis now, were they?

_You were the one who called him Tom, you prat._

Harry stood up sullenly and went to fetch his supplies for first-period Potions.

* * *

The 1942 potions classroom seemed considerably more inviting than its future counterpart. Circular stone tables were spaced throughout the room, and massive bay windows lining the walls let in ample amounts of daylight. Harry sat at an empty table just as Acacius came in through the doorway. The boy caught his gaze and came bounding over.

“Hello Acacius,” said Harry.

“Potter! Merlin’s tit! What was that stunt you pulled with Riddle? Everyone’s gone mad! I made the sensible suggestion that you sucked his willy in the lavatory, but Marcella threw her toast at me.”

“Acacius!”

“Potter! And for crying out loud, call me Ace.”

Harry laughed. Acacius may have been a complete ribald with a mouth worse than a sailor, but he had his own charm. “Fine. In that case, call me Harry.”

Acacius shot him one of his distinctive lopsided grins, and Harry decided that he much preferred it over the dazzling smile Tom reserved for his teachers. That one was downright ceremonious, much too perfect for his liking. “Well then, Harry,” said Acacius, “what exactly did you do to poor little Riddle?”

Harry crossed his arms. “Well, _Ace_ , I most definitely did not ‘suck his willy in the lavatory’. Anyone could have walked in!”

Acacius widened his eyes. Apparently, he wasn’t expecting that. He broke out in laughter and flung an arm around the boy. “Oh Harry, I think we’ll get along quite splendidly indeed.”

Harry tried to pass off the casual way his dormmate threw himself about. He brushed off the boy’s arm, which was pulling Harry into his hard chest.

“Honestly though,” said Harry, “I did nothing! He just seems to want to get to know me, that’s all.”

Acacius raised an eyebrow. “Uh-huh.” He glanced over Harry’s shoulder and cracked his widest smile yet. “Callum! Over here!”

Callum Rosier, Harry recalled from the Welcoming Feast: the boy with the golden hair. Harry enjoyed his quiet company. He seemed a lot kinder than the other Slytherins.

“Hello Ace. Harry.” He gave Harry a polite nod. “Lovely sky today. Can’t wait for Quidditch try-outs next week.”

“You and your Quidditch,” said a still-smiling Acacius. “Don’t you ever think of anything else?” He turned to Harry. “Did you know that he used to sneak out at night to go sleep on the field?”

“That was one time, Ace!” Callum whined.

“Wanking under the stars…”

Callum burst into laughter. “Oh yes. Care to accompany me next time?”

Acacius turned a bright shade of red.

 _He likes him,_ Harry realised with a start.

“Do you play, Harry?” asked Acacius, eager to shift the spotlight.

“I played Seeker a few years back. With my father’s friends.”

Callum perked up in his seat. “Oh, you must try out, Harry! The spot for Seeker is open. After what happened to Phineas…”

Harry tilted his head. “Who’s Phineas?”

Callum lowered his eyes, prompting Acacius to respond instead. “He was Alphard’s brother. Amazing Seeker. He died last year after sneaking into the Forbidden Forest.”

“Yes, poor Alphard blamed himself afterwards,” said Callum. “Apparently they were playing a game of dare.”

Harry felt a twinge of pity. He understood the pain of losing family.

“We had an alternate,” Callum went on, “but he wasn’t very good at all. If you have any experience, you’d come to try-outs!”

Harry almost said yes, then remembered that he would most likely be gone by the time the first match rolled around in November. It was a shame, really. “I’ll think on it,” he said.

Slughorn piped up from the front of the class and everyone settled in their seats.

“All right fifth years, enough dawdling! It’s been a marvellous summer but let’s all clear our heads and get right back down to business. I must say I am very pleased to see so many familiar faces. Some new faces as well,” he nodded at Harry, “and er… others alike.” He shot a rather unhappy glance at Acacius. “Now, as usual per my regular classes, you will be given the opportunity to prove yourselves for my advanced standings class. Those who demonstrate proper wit and creativity by the end of the week will be permitted to switch over.”

Harry supposed that was where Tom was. He had no desire to join him.

“Additionally,” Slughorn continued, “please note that the storeroom’s supply of Mandrake root and Firebat phalluses—”

Before the professor could finish, the door flew open, and in rushed a small bespectacled boy sporting a black eye.

“Apologies for my tardiness, professor,” he said with surprising eloquence. “I lost track of time.”

Slughorn waved for him to come in. “Ah! Do join us, William.”

“It’s Wilson, sir.” A few sniggers.

“What was that about phalluses?” whispered Acacius.

Slughorn didn’t seem to hear any of it and continued on with his announcements. Meanwhile, Wilson was having trouble finding a seat. His classmates shot him dirty looks whenever he approached a table, only to smirk as he turned away. Harry took one look at his bruised face and gestured out to him, pulling a stool to his left. Wilson eyed him warily and sat down.

Callum and Acacius stiffened to his right. They stared at Harry, baffled. Harry shot a questioning glance, and Acacius mouthed, _Mudblood._

For a moment, Harry was in shock. Acacius? A blood purist? Then he recalled his first words at the Welcoming Feast. _“You must be a pure-blood then.”_ The only reason Harry had been accepted into the House at all was because he had lied about his parentage. He glanced around the room full of Slytherins and saw to his dismay that they were all blood purists. He wanted to gag.

Despite his efforts, he gave Acacius something akin to a frown before turning his attention to the lecture. Hermione was a Muggle-born. His own mother was a Muggle-born. Would these people have beaten them like they had beaten this boy?

“As for our first activity,” said Slughorn, “let’s all turn to page seventy-one of our textbooks. The Elixir to Induce Euphoria. You have an hour and a half.”

Everyone scrambled to organise their stations, eager to prove themselves for the advanced standings class. Harry, however, couldn’t care less. He wasn’t there to compete with the other students. Perhaps if Tom were sitting beside him, his annoying presence alone would have served as motivation. But he wasn’t there at the moment.

As Harry read through the recipe, he realised that this was the same potion he had made for Slughorn in his sixth year. It felt so long ago, but he could still remember some details from the Half-Blood Prince’s notes. He sat up a little straighter—maybe he actually had a shot at this.

Ten minutes later, he smacked the table in frustration. His potion kept burning no matter how quickly he stirred it. The other students were all facing issues of their own. Acacius’s elixir had turned a murky grey and started crackling; Callum’s wooden ladle was stuck in a cement-like goop; a girl shrieked as her potion melted through the cauldron and the table and the floor. The entire class had become a noxious barnyard of angry, sweaty Slytherins. Harry would have laughed if it weren’t for his own charred cauldron. The only one who seemed to be doing all right was Wilson. His concoction was a clear, sparkling yellow and gave off a light citrusy scent.

“That’s amazing,” said Harry. “How are you doing that?”

Wilson glanced up from his cauldron. “Oh… I just altered a few of the instructions.” He showed Harry his textbook. “Here, for instance. The recipe says to add the shrivelfig straight into the pot, but it doesn’t mention cutting off the stem. The bitterness of the stalk compromises the purity of the mixture, you see.”

Acacius scoffed. “You’re one to talk about purity.” His potion promptly exploded in his face.

Harry paid him no mind. “That’s genius, Wilson. You’re the only one here who’s actually getting the blasted thing.”

Wilson blinked, then smiled. He hesitated for a moment before scooting over. “You’re the new student, right? I’ll help you. Mine’s practically finished anyway.” He took one look at Harry’s cauldron and shook his head. “She’s a goner.”

“I’ll start over then,” Harry sighed. “There should be enough time.”

He emptied his cauldron and used a Scouring Charm to clean off the burnt bits. Then, he began to brew the potion in earnest, with Wilson guiding him through the process.

“No, stir it like this, in a figure-eight motion. It says to stir clockwise, but that doesn’t incorporate the ingredients as effectively.”

“Add another half porcupine quill. Your solution isn’t brown enough.”

“Measure out your wormwood infusion now. You won’t have time once the mixture starts boiling.”

Harry followed his every word. The elixir was a light beige now. Acacius and Callum gawked as the smell of tangerines began to pierce through the air. Harry remembered a note from the Half-Blood Prince’s book and tossed in a few peppermint leaves.

Wilson tilted his head curiously. “That wasn’t in the recipe.”

“Peppermint,” Harry said, “to counter the—”

“—occasional side effects of singing and nose-tweaking!” said Wilson. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

They talked while Harry finished brewing the potion. Wilson’s father was stationed in France. His mother worked in a munitions factory. He missed them terribly. Harry was in awe of the boy’s resilience. He carried himself with an unflinching air despite the bruises on his face.

As class came to a near end, Slughorn made his way around the room, tutting and shaking his head at the mismatched cauldrons of slop. He came around to Harry’s table and exuded a beam of delight.

“Well, what do we have here!” He brought his nose to the two elixirs. “Impeccably executed, Harry and William! And is that peppermint I smell in yours, Harry? Quite ingenious indeed.”

“I only succeeded thanks to Wilson, professor. He helped me tremendously.”

Slughorn chortled and clapped Harry’s back. “No need to be modest, my boy. You’ve done excellently! You can lend a hand to all your classmates next time! Acacius, for instance…” He turned to the unhappy, soot-covered boy before clearing his throat. Acacius kept silent and eyed Harry with what almost looked like betrayal.

 _Whatever,_ thought Harry. If this was the price he had to pay to be friends with a Muggle-born, then fine. He would take Wilson over a blood purist any day. He left class with his new friend, promising to give him flying lessons if he continued helping Harry with his Potions studies.

Throughout the rest of the day, Harry seemed to catch whispers from his fellow schoolmates. People stared at him in the hallways and a few Slytherins threw him dirty looks. As he made his way to the Common Room, Marcella came darting over.

“Is it true what they’re saying, Harry? Are you really a blood traitor?”

Harry paused in his tracks. He gazed at her pretty green eyes. Did she whisper about him too?

“Does everyone know?” he asked.

Marcella stepped back. “Merlin’s beard, Harry. Are you mad! You’ve any idea what they’ll do to you?” Her voice was scolding but she didn’t sound cruel. Harry frowned.

“I don’t care what those pig-brained blood fanatics think of me. They can choke on their own libel. Besides, this is a school. What’s the worst that could happen?”

Marcella sighed and looked at him with something like pity. “You’re digging your own grave, Harry. Don’t underestimate the lengths they’ll go to. You’ll only get yourself hurt, or worse.”

Harry stared at her, shocked. “You don’t agree with them either.”

The brunette glanced around nervously. “I…” She stopped and gave Harry a frosty look. “Don’t come to me when you need help. We aren’t friends.” And with that she strode away, leaving Harry wondering what he had gotten himself into.

He ate his dinner in silence that evening. His Housemates refused to even speak to him. He sat alone at the end of the table, munching half-heartedly on some carrots and ignoring the murmurs of nearby students. Before long, Tom appeared and took the seat across from him.

Harry scowled. “What do you want.”

The boy stared back, straight-faced. “Pork chop.”

He started filling his plate with food. Harry rolled his eyes and went back to poking at his vegetables.

“I know it’s not true, you know,” said Tom.

Harry shook his head. “What?”

“You being a blood traitor.” Harry said nothing, and Tom continued. “Didn’t Wilson fix your potion during class?” He leaned forwards. “Slughorn must have been awfully pleased upon seeing the end result. I bet he’s just about ready to transfer you over.”

Harry stared at him. The advanced standings class? Is that what this was about?

Tom went on. “It’s a good plan, if I may say so myself. Using the Mudblood. A real Slytherin move.”

Harry burst into laughter. “Bloody hell, is that what you think?”

Tom frowned.

“I’m friends with Wilson because I respect him as a person. His intelligence. Kindness. Can’t be said for the rest of you bloody lot.”

Tom sat still for a moment, then scoffed. “Kindness? Blimey, Harry, have you lost it? What’s kindness going to get you?”

“Friends, Tom,” Harry shot back, “but you wouldn’t understand, would you? You’ve practically alienated yourself from everyone ever since you became prefect. People think you’re a stuck-up git. They talk behind your back. Do you even have friends, Tom? When was the last time anyone showed you kindness?”

Tom pursed his lips. He stared at Harry glumly. “I was hoping you’d be my friend.”

Harry blinked. _What?_

Before he could respond though, Tom shot him a dirty look. “But you’re clearly too stupid to be worth my time. I don’t need your _kindness_ , Harry. Save your preachings for the next person unlucky enough to notice you.”

Harry widened his eyes. “You know what, Tom? You’re the stupid one. You think your ambition is getting you anywhere useful? Your power-hungry lack of purpose makes you nothing more than a fucking caricature. Tom Marvolo Riddle, a bloody born loser of a joke. No wonder nobody cares about you.”

He had expected Tom to laugh scornfully, or curse him then and there. He hadn’t expected the boy to look hurt. Harry almost regretted his words, but then remembered who it was he was speaking to. He forced himself to continue glaring.

“Fuck you,” said Tom. He rose from his seat and stormed out of the hall.

Harry’s stomach immediately churned with unease. It didn’t feel right. He fought the urge to chase after him, but quickly changed his mind and dashed out of the hall, catching up to the boy just as he slipped through a door. The Room of Requirement, Harry recognised. He went inside. It was empty save for a lone window and piano in the far corner. Tom was nowhere to be seen.

A hand suddenly seized Harry’s shirt and yanked him to the side. He struggled as Tom held him up by the collar.

Harry cursed himself. He had walked straight into Tom’s trap. No one would find his body if he died in this room. It was the perfect ambush. He couldn’t believe he had actually felt _bad_ for the guy—

Tom let him go. “Why did you follow me?”

Harry stared, dumbfounded. “I just… felt bad about…”

“I don’t understand you, Harry.”

“It’s for the best.”

“But _why?”_ Tom’s voice was desperate, pained almost. “The moment I saw you, I…” He groaned in frustration and tugged at his hair. “You felt it too! I saw it in your eyes! What are you hiding from me, Harry?”

Harry didn’t know what to say. This didn’t seem at all like the villain he was prepared for. He couldn’t help but feel pity for the tortured boy in front of him, his naivety of what he would become. Tom had been bound to his doom from the moment he was born, never to be understood or loved. It wasn’t fair.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and he meant it.

Tom grimaced. “I don’t need your sympathy.” He pulled Harry closer, his face hardening. “You know something. Something valuable. I want to know what it is.” He reached out and touched the scar on Harry’s forehead. “I may not be able to look into your mind, but I could torture it from you. Easily.”

His face was centimetres away, but Harry didn’t flinch. “You won’t,” he whispered.

“You’re a fool, Harry Potter.”

“You don’t scare me, Tom.”

“Why not?”

“You can’t be scared of what you pity.”

Tom snarled and shoved Harry away. “We’re not friends, blood traitor. Get out.”

A part of Harry wanted to stay, but he saw the look on Tom’s face and decided otherwise. He reached for the door handle before taking one final glance back. “The reason you wanted to get to know me, it was only because you thought I knew something useful.”

Tom paused. “Yes.”

Harry lowered his eyes. He left the boy in the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be honest, I had my doubts before posting this. There's something terrifying about having my work out for the entire world to see, but your comments are all so encouraging! I'm really glad that I joined this community and hope my writing doesn't disappoint. Next chapter, we'll see Harry and Tom continue to sort out their feelings for each other. A certain Malfoy will make an appearance as well.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter contains graphic depictions of violence.

“Get up, you stinking blood traitor.”

A bucket of ice-cold water splashed Harry in the face, jolting him awake.

“Was that necessary!” he sputtered.

His dormmates laughed and bolted from the room. Tom stayed behind.

“Who’s Cedric?”

Harry scowled as he changed into his uniform. “Oh, so we’re friends again, are we?”

“It was only a question!”

“Well, I don’t want to hear it! If you want to nose out someone’s secrets for your own personal gain, you can go kiss Slughorn’s arse.”

Tom said nothing. Harry rolled his eyes and shoved past him. He didn’t know what he wanted from the other boy. An apology? An argument? Nothing he felt made sense. He groaned and proceeded to angrily brush his teeth.

Tom followed him into the bathroom. “Look, Harry, I’m sorry. I just—” He caught sight of the boy glaring at him through the mirror, furiously yanking his toothbrush back and forth.

“What?” Harry garbled.

Tom smirked.

“What, Tom!” Harry spun around.

Tom snorted back laughter, then tried to hide it with a cough.

“Are you seriously laughing right now!” Toothpaste slobbered down Harry's chin.

Tom let out a guffaw. It sounded ridiculous, and Harry groaned loudly.

“You are so… so…” Harry stamped his foot. “So _fucking annoying!_ Fuck!”

He hurled his toothbrush at the boy, who dodged to the side and howled with laughter. Harry stared at him.

_Well, what do you know, the Dark Lord has a sense of humour._

“I’m sorry,” Tom managed to say. “Let’s have breakfast together?”

Harry glared.

“I’ll buy you a new toothbrush,” Tom offered.

“Fine.”

They made their way to the dining hall and sat down in silence. Awkwardness hung in the air as Tom stabbed at his food, noticeably disconcerted. Harry frowned. Did he do something wrong? He realised what was happening and scowled. “Spit it out.”

Tom glanced up. “Sorry?”

“I’m a blood traitor. Say it.”

Tom blinked. Harry went on. “Sorry for ruining your good mood. But if you’re going to laugh at me one moment and spurn me the next, then why bother inviting me to breakfast at all? Can’t you just bloody decide whether you hate me or not?”

Tom frowned. He shook his head. “You misunderstand. I couldn’t hate you, Harry. And I wasn’t thinking about your… particular school of thought.”

“Then what’s going on?”

“I…” Tom shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “All right, I’ll be blunt. But only because I trust you not to judge me.”

Harry nodded. Tom took a deep breath. “I’ve been thinking about what you said last night.”

“I’m sorry by the way,” Harry interrupted. “I was wrong. There _are_ people who care about you.”

Tom’s ears flushed pink. “The thing is, you were right. About me alienating myself. In all my years at Hogwarts, I don’t think I’ve ever really made a friend. And I don’t mean the usual friends where we reap a few benefits but otherwise can’t stand to be in each other’s faces.” He glanced down at his food. “You seem to be the only person here who doesn’t see me as some orphan boy without a family. I mean, I can tell that you don’t particularly like me, and you do say some very annoying things, and I do think you’re a bit of a righteous uptight snob—”

“Will you get to the point?”

Tom grinned. “But you don’t act as though I’m separate from everyone else. You state things as they are. I don’t feel the defensive need to intimidate you like I do with other people.”

“So you’re calling me approachable?”

“No, definitely not. You’re a grumpy sod.”

Harry huffed. “ _You’re_ a grumpy sod!”

Tom laughed. “See? That’s exactly what I mean. You see me as your equal. It’s quite refreshing, actually. Once I get over how annoying you are.” He smirked as Harry narrowed his eyes. “I suppose what I’m saying is, I’m glad your family sent you here.”

Tom's words took a moment to fully register. Once they did, Harry had to try very hard not to immediately get up and run away. It was as though his entire world had been knocked over and flipped inside out. How was it that this boy ended up becoming Voldemort? How could Harry possibly bear to kill him? He glanced at the ring on Tom’s finger, the Horcrux that branded him as a murderer, and his breathing sped up. It was all too much, too fast, and the panic was bubbling over in his chest. He quickly shook his head and forced it to clear, pushed everything aside for later. He gave Tom a smirk. “Who says you're my equal? I’m obviously way above your league.”

Tom grinned. “Well, at least we’re not out to kill each other.”

Harry tried his best to laugh at that.

“It’s strange,” said Tom. “I don’t ever talk about these things. Well, I might write about them in my diary, but I don’t actually talk about them.” His eyes darted to Harry nervously. “You don’t mind, do you?”

“I don’t mind.”

Tom grinned again. Harry noticed that his eyes weren’t as forcibly crinkled when he smiled that way.

“As for you affiliating with the Mudblood,” the prefect continued, “stick with me, Harry; I’ll make you see things my way.”

Harry fought the urge to smack him. Way to ruin a moment. “Go on and bloody try.”

“Your challenge is accepted.”

“You’re a prick, you know that?”

Ben chose that moment to come striding over. “Tom!” he beamed. “No need to associate with the trash of the House. Come sit with us!”

Tom immediately stiffened. “I beg your pardon?” he asked, stone-faced.

The blonde widened his eyes. “I mean, whatever you want, of course. I only thought…”

Tom gave the boy a withering look until he lowered his head. “You can tell our fellow Slytherins over there that Harry is with me now. No need for all the nasty side-talk.”

Ben’s jaw dropped. “But he’s a blood—”

“Don’t make me repeat myself, Avery.”

Ben glanced back and forth between the two boys, then closed his mouth and trudged stiffly away.

Harry crossed his arms. “I can defend myself, Tom.”

“I know. But that doesn’t mean I can't help.” The bell rang, and Tom perked up in his seat. “We have our first class together. Defence Against the Dark Arts.”

Harry shook away his perturbation. “Lead the way.”

* * *

_“Expecto Patronum!”_

Gasps of wonderment filled the room as silver light burst from Professor Merrythought’s wand. A ghostly raven danced and twirled around the students’ heads, leaving a wispy trail in its wake. Harry grinned at the sight, then noticed Tom looking rather forlorn. He nudged the boy, who glanced up in surprise, and they smiled at each other as Merrythought's Patronus faded away.

“The Patronus Charm is among the most difficult and powerful defensive spells known to wizardkind. To perform it is a sign of extraordinary strength and command.” The professor peered around the faces in the classroom. “Very few witches and wizards are able to cast a Patronus in their lives, much less a corporeal one. Needless to say, I doubt any of you ever will.”

The students in the room huffed. “What if we do?” someone piped up.

Merrythought laughed. “Anyone who manages to show me a corporeal Patronus will receive an Outstanding in this class.”

The students murmured in excitement. Harry smirked.

“Enough.” Merrythought raised her hand. “I think it’s time we have some fun, yes? Our first class of the year, what better way to refresh our minds than with some friendly duelling! Who would like to volunteer?”

Hands shot into the air. Merrythought ignored them all and approached Harry. “You. New boy.” She pointed at him. “Let’s see what you’re made of.”

Harry held back a sigh as he made his way to the front of the class. His Housemates were already scowling at him. Merrythought, however, seemed not to notice or care.

“Potter, yes?” she asked. “Right then. Choose your opponent.”

Harry surveyed the room. With his years of combat training and experience, the students here were no match for him. He searched the crowd for its toughest-looking member, deciding that he may as well use this opportunity to prove a point. He locked eyes with a platinum-haired boy who had shot him a particularly filthy look earlier. “You.”

The boy grinned wickedly and marched up to Harry. “You’re a dead man, Potter.”

Merrythought rolled her eyes. “Now, now, Malfoy, I don’t want any nasty surprises. Let’s keep the maiming to a minimum, yes?”

 _Malfoy,_ Harry mused, recalling a previous classroom duel with Draco five years ago. This must have been his grandfather, Abraxas. How would it feel to defeat him with the stolen wand of his own descendent? Harry glanced back at the other students, and saw Tom furrow his brows in what looked like worry. Abraxas took advantage of the moment’s distraction and whipped out his wand. _“Stupefy!”_

Harry barely managed to leap to the side. He lost his footing and tripped, falling hard on his knees. Laughter erupted from the students, and he felt his face burn up in humiliation.

“On my mark, Malfoy!” Merrythought yelled.

Harry glared at the other boy and rose to his feet. He drew out his wand.

“Now!” shouted the professor, and Abraxas immediately lashed out.

But Harry was ready this time. He deflected the spell with an easy flick of the wrist. Abraxas paused in surprise.

“Get him, Malfoy!” someone cried out. Others cheered in response.

Abraxas narrowed his eyes and shot out three spells in succession. Harry waved them away lazily, smirking at the look of outrage on the boy’s face. He heard muttering from his classmates but focused only on his opponent in front of him. Abraxas snarled and fired again, one attack after another. Harry slashed his way forwards, sending every attack bouncing harmlessly off the walls. He sliced through the air with staggering speed until he stood face-to-face in front of Abraxas. He held his wand to the boy’s throat.

They stood still for a moment, the only sound in the room being Abraxas’s heavy breathing.

“Magnificent!” shouted Merrythought. “Phenomenal!”

Harry lowered his wand and headed back to his seat. He locked eyes with Tom, who was staring at him with something like wonder. Or was it fear? Harry felt a sudden rush course through his veins, and he swivelled around. _“Melofors!”_ he shouted, and a pumpkin popped into place around Abraxas’s head.

The boy shrieked and teetered around, attempting and failing to hold his gourd-encased head upright. He fell with a splat and the fruit exploded, gushing its contents all over the classroom floor.

No one moved or spoke. Even Merrythought was momentarily dumbstruck.

“That was for striking me before the mark,” said Harry.

Abraxas roared and charged at him, but Merrythought shoved the boy back to the floor. “Enough! Ten points from Slytherin!”

A collective groan rose from the Slytherins in the room. A girl stood up. “But Professor, Harry shouldn’t have!”

Merrythought raised an eyebrow. “And Abraxas shouldn’t have cheated.” She waved her wand and the pumpkin scraps disappeared from the fuming blonde boy.

“But—”

Marcella interjected from the back row. “Oh, shut up, Ruby, we all know you want in Malfoy’s pants.”

Laughter erupted from the class, and Ruby sat back down mortified. Harry tried to shoot Marcella a look of thanks, but she turned away immediately.

“Er, right then,” said Merrythought. “Well, Mr. Potter, care to explain your strategy in defeating Mr. Malfoy?”

Harry glanced at Abraxas. The boy was glowering at him with absolute loathing. “It’s all about figuring out your opponent’s next move,” Harry said. “Once you understand their fighting patterns, retaliation becomes easy. Abraxas fought like a child; he gave away his every move and never once planned ahead. It made defeating him easy.”

The class murmured, and Merrythought held back a smile. Abraxas was trembling with fury now, but Harry didn’t care. Any consequence for his behaviour seemed hazy and far away. He felt like he could do anything, say anything, all with the offhand confidence of knowing that he would eventually leave the place. It was almost like a dream, one where he knew he was dreaming and couldn’t be hurt. He smiled sweetly at Abraxas and took his seat next to Tom.

“Mr. Potter is correct,” said Merrythought. “You each have your own method of duelling, and so will your opponent. Analyse their form and technique. Look for patterns within their movements. Once you find an opening, do not hesitate to strike quickly. Good play, Harry. Twenty points to Slytherin.”

All eyes turned to Harry, and he felt an unexpected blush spread over his cheeks. Merrythought’s praise came as a surprise, especially after the stunt he had just pulled. She had given back the points he had lost and more, and now his Housemates looked at him with something more akin to pleasant surprise than animosity. The professor continued on with her lesson, and Harry felt a nudge on his shoulder.

“What the hell was that?” whispered Tom.

Harry shrugged. “Homeschooling.”

Tom glared.

A voice sounded up from behind them. “Whatever it was, Potter, it was bloody brilliant.”

Harry turned around to see a boy from Gryffindor beaming at him. A few others nodded in agreement, and he felt a sad flutter in his chest.

Charms and Transfigurations passed by rather quickly that day. Harry was realising just how much he missed being in a classroom and was astonished to find himself constantly raising his hand, answering whatever questions he could. Although he still wasn’t quite on speaking terms with his Housemates, he did notice a few of them nod in approval every time he hauled in a few extra points. They probably assumed he was trying to get back on their good side, but the reality was that, for the first time in a long while, Harry was truly enjoying his classes.

On the other hand, Tom had been trying to prod his way into Harry’s mind ever since his duel with Abraxas. Harry was grateful for his Occlumency abilities, and merely raised an eyebrow at the boy every time he felt a poke near his defences. Dumbledore seemed to notice this in the middle of his lecture and tilted his head curiously at the two boys.

It was clear that evening, however, that not all of his Housemates had moved on from their initial resentment. As he entered the Common Room, someone shouted, “Blood traitor!”

Harry merely rolled his eyes and continued on his way. As he listed in his head all the reasons why it wasn’t worth it to argue, something heavy smacked into the back of his neck. A hardcover textbook plopped to the ground beside him. He turned around before he could stop himself, and a fist slammed into his stomach.

He should have seen it coming. Harry fell to his knees, glaring at the person who attacked him. Malfoy. Four other boys stood behind him, arms crossed.

“I understand that you’ve never been to a school before, Potter,” Abraxas sneered, “so let me be frank. People like you don’t belong here.”

They charged forwards. By sheer instinct, Harry managed to stun two of them before being wrestled down. He was quick, but they were stronger and heavier. He fought helplessly as one boy snatched Draco’s wand from his hand. “Won’t be needing this anymore,” he smirked, snapping it in half across his thigh. Harry’s eyes widened as the boy tossed the two splintered pieces of wood across the room.

They began to beat Harry relentlessly, bashing his stomach with hard kicks and boots, careful to avoid his face. It was all he could do to curl in and shield himself, but they kicked his arms and sides as well. Minutes seemed to pass as he was battered without end. At one point, he heard someone in the room speak up, “All right Abraxas, you’ve proved your point…”

But they didn’t stop. It wasn’t exactly the worst pain he had ever gone through. The adrenaline was dulling his senses, and everything felt blunted. But the psychological damage was there. Harry came to the sickening realisation that his attackers wouldn’t stop until they were good and satisfied with themselves. Dread soaked into his bones, and the adrenaline began to wear off. As the pain grew unbearably sharp, it took all of Harry’s willpower not to beg them to stop. They kept kicking. He felt like vomiting now. They weren’t going to stop. They were never going to stop…

_“Petrificus Totalus!”_

The voice cut clean through the room. Harry gasped, suddenly able to breathe again, though doing so felt like fire. He shuddered and looked up. Tom stood with his wand pointed the now-paralysed Slytherin boys. His eyes were wild, and Harry knew the look. He’d seen it on Voldemort all too many times. He staggered to his feet and lurched towards the murderous-looking boy. “Tom.”

For an awful moment, Tom didn’t budge. Finally, his hand began to tremble. He turned around, and Harry saw the fear in his eyes. He wanted to tell him that everything was okay, he was fine now, but he couldn’t get his voice to work because suddenly the room was spinning and blood was rushing past his head and he saw the floor come up to his face and—

Tom caught hold of him. “We have to get you to the infirmary.”

Harry wheezed. His head lolled to the side. “No…”

“Are you daft!” Tom cradled the boy’s cheek. “You’re half dead.”

Harry mustered up all his willpower. If he went to the infirmary, the boys could end up expelled. Then he might never gain his Housemates’ respect. “No.”

Tom seemed to understand. He groaned and hauled Harry to the dorm room. They stumbled in through the doorway, startling Acacius and Callum.

“Go fetch some Wiggenweld Potion from the infirmary,” Tom told them, setting Harry down on his mattress.

“What?” Acacius was buttoning up his shirt. “What happened to Harry?”

“What do you bloody think!” Tom yelled. “Go! Now! Don’t get caught!”

Acacius glanced at Callum, who seemed too flustered to say anything. He turned to Tom. “If the others found out we helped—”

Tom slammed him against the wall.

“Hey!” yelled Callum.

“Take your boyfriend. And go fetch some Wiggenweld Potion from the infirmary. Now. Before I start breaking your fingers.”

Acacius paled. Tom let go of him, and the two boys scurried away.

“Was that necessary?” Harry croaked.

“Don’t talk.” Tom came close and lifted the boy’s jumper from his head. He started unbuttoning his shirt.

Harry squirmed. “What are you—”

“Shut up.”

Harry looked down and let out a wheeze. His torso was a mess of lumps and bruises. They coated his body in a muddle of colours and spread to his shoulders and arms. He reeled at the sight.

Tom was shaking. “I’ll kill them, Harry, I swear.”

“Don’t.”

Tom tended to his wounds, muttering whatever healing spells he was able.

_This is wrong._

His hands were gentle and moved nimbly across Harry’s torso.

_Wrong, wrong, wrong. Horcrux. Murderer._

“No, nonono…” In a panic, Harry recoiled from Tom’s touch. “Why are you helping me!”

Tom looked at a loss for words. “What do you mean? Harry, I—”

“You’re not the good guy, Tom!” Harry cried out. He cringed as pain shot up through his torso.

Tom’s face blanched. “Don’t say that…”

“Stop it! Why are you—no no it’s all wrong.” Harry was rambling now, sinking into blackness. “Not like this… you’re not…”

“What the hell are you talking about!” Tom’s voice was frantic. “Harry, have we met before?” His eyes widened. “Harry!”

But he was far away. Tom’s voice cried out in the distance as blackness consumed Harry.

* * *

The world was hazy for a moment, then everything turned bright. Harry found himself back in the misty white expanse of Limbo, his surroundings slowly morphing this time into what he recognised as the Gryffindor Tower. Dumbledore stood at an open window.

“Dumbledore!”

The old wizard turned around. His eyes were weary as he smiled down at the boy. “Hello, Harry.”

“I’m not dead, am I?”

“Dear heavens, no. You appear to be passing by at the moment.”

Harry sighed. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

The professor nodded. “I understand your confusion, Harry. You remind me of myself, in some ways. Memories from long ago…” He gazed out the window into the distance, but all Harry could see was white.

“Are you all right, professor?”

Dumbledore was silent for a moment. “Well,” he finally said, “I suppose I am, considering I’m dead. Are _you_ all right, Harry?”

Harry wasn’t sure how to respond.

“Ah, I see.”

“Tom,” Harry said, “I’m not supposed to kill him, am I?”

“Oh, that will be up to you.”

“I don’t want to kill him.” Harry winced at his words. “That makes me a terrible person, doesn’t it, professor? He killed my parents.”

“He has yet to.”

“He’s already murdered his family.”

“You do not know the circumstances he was under. No one does.”

“Why are you defending him? You’re dead because of him!”

“He was a lonely boy.”

“He’s a monster!” Harry shouted. “He ruined my life! He deserves to die! I hate him! I hate him!”

“Then why have you not killed him?”

Harry screamed and threw a punch at the wall. It didn’t hurt like he wanted to. He screamed again.

Dumbledore watched closely. “You have not killed him, Harry, because you are good.”

“I’m weak.”

“You are quite the opposite.”

“Why am I listening to you? Dumbledore is dead. You’re just a piece of my own head.”

“Perhaps.”

“This is stupid. Why am I even here? Why is any of this happening?”

“You asked it to. You are the Master of Death, after all.”

“I don't want to be the master of anything! I just wanted to save my family.” Harry broke into tears. “I just wanted to save my family…” He slumped to the floor, crying.

Dumbledore placed a hand on his shoulder. “They are not the ones who need saving.”

Harry sniffled. “I was hoping you wouldn’t say that.”

“Oh, but I am a piece of your head, am I not?”

Harry buried his face in his hands. “I don’t know if I can save him. I don’t know if that’s even possible.”

“I tried to save someone once,” Dumbledore said. His voice was unusually quiet.

“Professor?”

But the wizard’s eyes were fixed on whatever he saw outside the window. Harry stood up and approached his mentor’s side. “You’re not just a piece of my head, are you?”

Dumbledore smiled. They gazed out the window together as whiteness enveloped them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just love writing dialogues between Harry and Tom—they get so sassy! It'll be interesting as the story goes on for me to figure out a balance between Good Tom and Tom the Murderer. See you next week for chapter four!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve revised some parts of chapters 1-3, namely the number of dormmates Harry has. Rather than having all the fifth-year boys rooming together, I’m having five per dorm room. If we want a Hogwarts with 1000 students as Rowling imagined it, then we need around 18 fifth-year Slytherin boys. There are also some general spelling and grammar edits (“Mr.” to the British “Mr”, “forward” to the British “forwards”, “-ize” to the British “-ise”) which I will continue to make in addition to writing new chapters. I don’t have a beta reader, so I appreciate your patience as I patch things up!

Harry opened his eyes; the room was quiet save for the boys’ gentle snoring. Tom slept in a chair beside him, looking very uncomfortable.

“Tom?” Harry murmured.

The boy stirred awake. “Harry!”

“Shh, you’ll wake the others.”

“How do you feel?” Tom whispered.

“A little sore.”

“Show me.”

Harry unfurled his blankets. His stomach was still bruised slightly, but the damage to his chest and arms had been completely repaired. He shivered as the air brushed against his bare skin.

“Oh…” said Tom. “Er, yes, it’s healed quite nicely, hasn’t it?” He quickly drew the boy’s covers back up. “It’s a good thing I was told what was happening in the Common Room, or you’d likely be in the Hospital Wing right now.”

“How did you do it?” Harry asked.

“Wiggenweld Potion. And if those two idiots had been any slower, I would have had to summon the matron for help.”

Harry bit his lip. “You won’t tell anyone, will you? The professors, I mean.”

“Well, I _am_ prefect,” Tom smirked. “It’s my duty to inform the staff of such occurrences.”

“I swear, Tom, I will hex you so bloody—”

“Hush, you little hooligan, can you not tell what sarcasm is?”

Harry scowled. “I’m surprised you’re such the comedian, Mr Riddle.”

“It’s one of my most distinguishing traits, Mr Potter.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re getting dressed. I want to show you something.”

Harry yawned. “What time is it? Are we not under curfew?”

Tom checked his pocket watch as Harry donned his shirt and glasses. “It’s quarter past midnight. If we get caught, I’ll say you were sleepwalking, and I was out looking for you.”

“How the hell did they make you prefect?”

Tom chuckled, and they slipped out of the room.

“Where are you taking me?” asked Harry.

“To my favourite place in the whole castle.”

They made their way through the halls until they reached the steps to the Astronomy Tower. Harry faltered in his steps.

“Coming?” said Tom.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Harry glanced nervously up the stairs.

“What are you, afraid of heights? We’ve already gone this far.”

Harry gulped. The last time he was here was when Dumbledore had been killed.

“Merlin’s beard,” said Tom with a snigger, “you _are_ afraid, aren’t you?”

“Shut up! I’m just… not a big fan of towers.”

Tom laughed. “Don’t worry, fraidy-cat, I’ll be right next to you.” He grabbed Harry’s shoulders and manoeuvred him to the steps. “Ready?”

“What?”

“And away we go!”

Harry yelped as Tom shoved him forwards.

“Chaaarge!” the boy screamed, driving Harry up the stairs. 

Harry’s shouts of protest soon turned into laughter, and he wrenched himself free of Tom’s grip. They began to race each other up the tower, jumping, whooping, and howling through the night like two drunken Vikings on a rampage. Harry shoved past Tom; Tom caught Harry in a vice and gave him a good noogie. The boys romped around in outrageous buffoonery until they finally reached the top, whereupon they collapsed to the floor and rolled onto their backs, laughing.

“I haven’t had this much fun in years,” said Tom.

Harry grinned. “You’re mad.”

“With you, yes.”

“So what now?” Harry rose to his feet.

“Wait, don’t get up.”

“Why?”

“Just don’t. Here, lie with me.”

Harry did as instructed. Tom brought out his wand and cast a warming spell, then pointed it to the ceiling. _“Evanesco.”_

The ceiling vanished, and Harry gasped.

“We’re lucky,” said Tom, “It’s a clear sky tonight.”

Harry lay dumbstruck on the floor. The night was alive and dancing with light. The stars were shattered diamonds. They sparkled and shimmered and showered across the black sky like frosted shards of celestial rain. Harry glanced at Tom, whose face was bathed in an icy silver. “It’s beautiful.”

Tom turned to Harry. He opened his mouth, as if he wanted to say something, but promptly closed it and gazed back up at the stars. They lay there for a while in comfortable silence, the minutes slowly passing by.

Eventually, Harry sat up. “It’s late. We should head back before someone catches us.”

Tom didn’t respond. Harry looked down and saw to his surprise that the boy was asleep. He placed a hand on his shoulder. The fabric was rough. Tom didn’t stir. Harry leaned closer. “Tom.”

Tom opened his eyes. Suddenly, neither boy could breathe. The air seemed to drop ten degrees, and Harry’s heart pounded so loudly in his ears that he was sure Tom could hear. He gulped, Tom’s eyes darting to the bob of his throat. The boy stared fixedly at the spot. Then, gradually, he began to trail his gaze up Harry’s neck. Focused slowly on his chin, his jaw. Lingered delicately on his lips. Traced the curve of his cupid’s bow. Studied the shape of his nose. But just as he was about to reach Harry’s eyes, Tom scowled and pushed the boy away.

Harry’s head hit the floor. “Ow, what was that for!”

Tom said nothing and rose quickly to his feet. He avoided looking at Harry altogether as he strode towards the exit. Harry followed Tom down the stairs, struggling to keep up with his pace.

“Will you slow down—”

Tom spun around, furious, and Harry stepped back in bewilderment.

“Forget about it,” the prefect said.

“What?”

“Tonight. The tower. All of it, just forget about it.”

“Tom…”

“It was a mistake. I shouldn’t have brought you here.”

Harry stared up at the taller boy. His chest felt like breaking. He wanted to ask why, what had changed, but deep down he knew.

_He thinks you’re disgusting._

“I’m sorry,” said Harry. “I’ll forget about it.”

Tom’s jaw seemed to tremble for a moment, then he nodded. They walked to the dormitories a distance apart and climbed into their beds without another word. Harry couldn’t sleep that night.

* * *

The next day, he sat with Wilson in the Great Hall, filling his plate with treacle tarts and chatting about their various classes.

“You’re unexpectedly chipper this morning,” said Wilson.

Harry was indeed feeling chipper. He had gotten out of bed extra early to visit Slughorn in his office, chatting up the giddy professor about trying out for the Quidditch team and leaving successfully with a vial of Invigoration Draught, which he had downed and felt the effects of straight away. After another visit to the Headmaster’s Office, he had readily greeted the Slytherins in the Common Room, winked at Acacius and Callum, and thanked them publicly for fetching the Wiggenweld Potion that healed his injuries. His Housemates had looked at him with begrudging admiration, no doubt approving of his collectedness and vigour, as well as the skilful manner in which he had portrayed the two boys as his apparent supporters. Harry had then taken the arm of a baffled Wilson and sauntered assuredly to the Great Hall. They sat now, a distance away from a quiet, brown-eyed prefect, laughing and enjoying their breakfast.

“It’s all thanks to you,” said Harry, “running to tell Riddle what was going on.”

Wilson shook his head. “That wasn’t me. I was in the library when Abraxas and his gang attacked you. I only heard what had happened after I came back and saw everyone gathered around your bed.”

Harry made a face. “Around my bed? What were they saying?”

“Lots of things, really. That you deserved it. That you didn’t, and Abraxas was a prick.”

Harry pointed to the welt that was slowly healing on Wilson’s eye. “He gave you that?”

Wilson nodded. “I tried some healing potions, but it was a special hex he had hit me with.”

“We’ll get him back for it,” Harry promised, “him and the rest of his cronies.”

“How? You don’t even have a wand.”

“Oh, about that! I’ve gotten permission from Dippet to visit to Ollivanders tomorrow, and I’m allowed to bring a friend. Come with me! You’ll need parental approval, of course.”

Wilson’s eyes widened as he broke into a smile. “Oh, I’d love to, Harry! But how in Merlin’s name did you manage to convince Dippet to let you off the grounds? That man is more strict than my Muggle schoolteachers.”

In reality, Harry had falsely hinted to Dippet that the excursion was to do with paramount time-travelling heroics, and the wizard had immediately given his permission.

“I suppose he felt sorry for me,” Harry lied, “new student with a broken wand and all. It’ll be during the weekend, anyway.”

Wilson laughed. “I’ll write my mum first period. I’m sure she’ll say yes. Thank you for inviting me, Harry.”

Harry grinned and stole a glance at Tom a few seats away. He would be lying if he didn’t admit that he was purposely speaking loud enough for the prefect to hear. Yes, Harry most definitely did have friends—well, _a_ friend—to happily spend mealtimes with. No, he was absolutely not one bit upset that Tom wouldn’t be the one to accompany him to Diagon Alley. Wilson needed a friend anyway, and Harry was more than happy to be that person, Tom be buggered.

When Saturday came about, he approached Abraxas in Common Room.

“I need to speak with you.”

Abraxas raised an eyebrow but followed him outside. Harry cast a Muffliato Charm.

“I want ten Galleons.”

The Malfoy blinked, then burst into laughter. “I knew you were a lowlife, Potter, but this exceeds all expectations.”

Harry crossed his arms. “Your _friends_ broke my wand, and I’m not paying for a new one. You either give me ten galleons right now, or I go straight to Dippet and tell him how you nearly beat me to death. How would Daddy Malfoy feel once his only heir is expelled from Hogwarts?”

Abraxas’s smirk promptly disappeared. “Are you blackmailing me, Potter?”

“It’s always the fathers they’re scared of. You know what? Make it twenty Galleons. Now or never, Malfoy.”

Abraxas snarled and dashed into the Common Room. He came out a few moments later with a small leather pouch. “Consider us even, Potter. Speak of this to no one.”

Harry wasn’t sure how twenty Galleons was enough to absolve a beating, but he nodded and took the money from Abraxas. An hour later, he and Wilson stepped into Diagon Alley, having travelled by Floo from Dippet’s office.

“I’ve always loved this place,” said Wilson. “I remember the first time I came here. I simply wanted to buy everything.”

“I blackmailed twenty Galleons from Abraxas,” Harry said matter-of-factly. “We’ll be buying loads of things today.”

Wilson widened his eyes. “You’re barking! Did you really?”

Harry held up the pouch, and Wilson laughed. They marched happily to Ollivanders.

A tinkling bell announced their presence as they stepped inside the store. The wandmaker was high up on a ladder, organising boxes on a shelf. He peered down at his guests. “Ah, Mr Matsumura… pine, nine inches, slightly yielding.”

Wilson scratched the back of his head. “I’m surprised you remember, sir.”

“I remember every wand I’ve ever sold,” said Ollivander. He came down from the ladder and raised a quizzical brow at Harry. “You, however, I have not yet met. What is your name?”

“I’m Harry,” Harry said simply. He decided that he didn’t want to risk anything by revealing his surname, as the wandmaker sold to nearly every witch and wizard in Britain. “I’m looking for a wand in particular. Holly, eleven inches, and with a phoenix feather core.”

Ollivander stared at the boy a little too intensely for his liking. “I must say I am taken aback, Mr…”

“Just Harry, sir.” He didn’t want to stay any longer in the creepy little store. “And my business is my own.”

Ollivander seemed a little nonplussed at Harry’s response, but nevertheless bowed his head. “Ah yes, of course. I indeed have the wand you are looking for, though I am astounded that you know of its exact specifications.” He searched through the shelves and approached Harry with a grey box. “Here you are.”

Harry opened it eagerly, and for the first time in months, he held his own wand, whole and unbroken. It balanced perfectly in his fingers and seemed to recognise him somehow, spewing forth a celebratory stream of red and green sparks.

“Curious… how curious…” said Ollivander.

Harry thanked him and paid seven Galleons. He quickly left the store with Wilson, anxious to be back outside.

“What was that about?” the boy asked.

Harry shrugged. “My old wand was the same design. I figured I should request for a similar one.”

Wilson frowned. “Your old wand was a darker colour.”

“Well, yes, I suppose Ollivander uses a different crafting technique.”

“You paid him, but he didn’t tell you the price.”

Harry blinked. Sometimes, Wilson was too smart for his own good. “I saw that it was seven Galleons on one of the signs.”

Wilson didn’t appear convinced, but he let the topic drop. Harry decided that he would have to be much more careful around the boy. He plastered on a smile. “We still have thirteen Malfoy Galleons to spare. Where should we go?”

Wilson pondered. “I saw an apothecary on the way here. Perhaps they’ll have something for my black eye.”

“Oh, fantastic! Let’s go, then.”

Wilson led the way to a small shop labelled _Mulligrubs Materia Medica._ They entered, and a short round woman came forwards to greet them. “Hello! How can I help you boys?”

Wilson smiled politely. “Good afternoon. I’m looking for a potion that will cure the bruise on my eye. I was hit with an unknown hex a few days ago, and I tried Wiggenweld with no effect.”

“Oh, you poor dear!” said the shopkeeper. “We’ll get you sorted up right away. May I?” She gestured to his glasses.

Wilson nodded.

She took off them off and brushed his hair to the side, inspecting his face. “Oh yes, I have just the thing.” She disappeared into the back of the store and came out with a small tin jar. “This is my mother’s concoction,” she said, “although I’ve added a few select ingredients for a nice bit of fragrance. The old crone keeps telling me I’ve ruined her recipe, but I think it smells quite nice! Quite nice indeed!” She opened the jar and held it up to Wilson’s nose. The boy immediately widened his eyes and struggled not to gag. “Isn’t it lovely, dear?”

Wilson wheezed. “Ah, yes! Very nice! Oh. Ahem, wow! Er, what exactly did you put in there?” Harry snorted in laughter and promptly had his foot stomped on.

“Butterscotch, essence of comfrey, and banana!”

 _“Oh Merlin, no wonder…”_ Wilson muttered under his breath.

The woman turned to Harry. “Would you like a whiff, dear?”

Harry beamed. “Oh, I’m fine, thank you very much! I’m sure my friend wants it all to himself. My, Wilson, you’re looking a little red. Is your eye hurting again? You’d better give him that stuff right now, madam. He seems to really need it.”

Wilson glared at Harry, then coughed a little as the woman patted a glob of medicine onto his eye. She prattled on about her various recipes as the boy’s face turned several shades of purple. Harry bit his lips together to keep from exploding into laughter, and after two painful minutes, the sickly odour faded away along with Wilson's black eye.

“Oh, how lovely!” said the witch. “You look bright as a diamond, dear! My, my, a handsome boy you are indeed. Aren’t you glad we’ve gotten rid of that pesky bruise?”

Harry tilted his head to the side. Wilson did indeed look quite handsome. He was surprised he never noticed it beforehand. “You should style your hair like that more often,” he said. “It looks good brushed to the side. Oh!” Harry widened his eyes, suddenly having an idea. “Let’s use the rest of the money to get you a haircut! Maybe some styling products as well.” He turned to the shopkeeper. “Do you have any idea where we could buy such things? I’m not too familiar with the subject.”

“Clearly not,” she huffed, eyeing Harry’s unkept hair in motherly disapproval. “My good friend Primpernelle owns a beauty shop at 275 Diagon Alley. Let her know I sent you, and she’ll give you a discount.”

“If I’m getting a makeover,” Wilson chuckled, “then you’d better get one with me, Harry. Merlin knows you need a haircut. You barely look from this century.”

Harry couldn’t argue with that. They made their way to the shop titled _Madam Primpernelle’s Beautifying Potions._ A tall witch stood behind a counter. “Good afternoon.”

“Hullo,” said Wilson, “The lady from Mulligrubs sent us. She said you could help us with, er, hair products and the like.”

The boys blushed, and Primpernelle held back a smirk. She had always found the male disinclination to self-grooming rather amusing. She turned around and called up the stairs. “Lyra!”

A fresh-faced girl peeped down from the second floor. “Yes, Mother?”

“We’ll be giving these boys haircuts. Bring your wand and come downstairs, please.” She smiled at Harry and Wilson. “I see you’re wearing your Hogwarts uniforms. My daughter Lyra is home-schooled. She may look young, but her beautician skills are already surpassing mine these days. You’ll be in good hands.”

Lyra came down the stairs, rolling up her sleeves, and Wilson suddenly went very still. She greeted the boys, and while Harry answered in kind, Wilson stared at her and said, “Eurhh.”

The mother-daughter duo immediately went to work, using the Severing Charm to cut the boys’ hair in sections. Twenty minutes later, they stared at themselves in the mirror, shocked.

“Blimey, Harry… we're… we look…”

“Hot.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

They sported a typical 1940s pompadour look, which framed their faces handsomely. Their hair had been parted back in loose waves, held in place with Wizard’s Sculpting Gel.

“That scar makes you look very rugged, Harry.”

“Thank you, Wilson. You have very nice bone structure. I hadn’t noticed it until today.”

“Thanks, mate. Your bone structure is great.”

Lyra and her mother exchanged a look.

“All we need to do now is lose the glasses,” said Wilson. He turned to Primpernelle. “Would you happen to have something to correct vision?”

The witch pointed to a row of tiny potions on a shelf. “Two drops in the morning, and you’ll be all set for the day.”

“Brilliant! We’ll take three each, please.”

Harry frowned, unsure of whether he wanted to part ways with his old spectacles. Admittedly, they were rather inconvenient during a duel or Quidditch match, but he had worn them for so long that they felt like a part of his identity. If anything, they made him look more like his father. “I think I’ll pass, actually.”

Wilson elbowed him. “Oh, come on, Harry! Don’t you want to show off those dazzling green eyes of yours? The girls will go mad.” He glanced furtively at Lyra.

Harry immediately thought of Tom. He recalled how the boy had pushed him away only two nights ago.

_Disgusting. You’re disgusting._

He had tried not to think about it, had even taken Slughorn’s potion to cheer himself up, but the insecurities that had kept him awake ever since the night of the Astronomy Tower now shone at the forefront of his mind.

He had always been small. Skinny. His face was sallow. His knees were knobbly. He wasn’t built like an athlete the way his more popular Housemates were. He was the boy who lived. He had been all his life, and it had been exhausting, terrifying, and downright discouraging ever since his first handshake at the Leaky Cauldron. Too much for any boy to live up to. He had managed to find some semblance of confidence in his friends and in Quidditch, but they were both gone now. He had tried making a friend in Tom, and the boy had quite literally pushed him away.

_Disgusting._

He had nothing left to hold on to. But of course he didn’t; that was just how his life worked, wasn’t it? It took everything from him worth holding on to. He would always end up with nothing.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid._

Without thinking, Harry yanked off his glasses and snapped them in half.

Everyone froze. They all stared at him in shock.

“Harry?” Wilson asked.

Harry blinked. “I… I’m sorry. I’m sorry…”

Wilson narrowed his eyes. “Harry, what’s wrong?” He placed a hand on the boy's back, and the tears came instantly.

It was sudden and horrible and embarrassing and Harry couldn’t stop.

“I miss home,” he sobbed.

Wilson embraced him tightly. “I know,” he said. “Me too.”

Harry cried and cried as Wilson held him in the little square shop. Lyra and her mother watched sadly.

“The war has been hard on all of us,” said Primpernelle, “our children, especially. You deserve better than what this world gives you.”

Harry stared down at his broken glasses. Wilson gently took the pieces from him. _“Oculus Reparo,”_ he said, and he handed them back, fixed. “You don’t have to wear these if they remind you of home, but don’t break them, Harry. Home is worth holding on to.”

Harry swallowed and nodded. He took a deep breath, gathering himself. “I’m sorry. I don’t know where that came from. I’m just tired, that’s all.”

Wilson shook his head. “Don’t apologise. You’ve had it harder than most. I can tell. I’m just grateful to have you as my friend.”

Harry smiled at him. “Thank you, Wilson.” He turned to Primpernelle. “I’ve changed my mind; we’ll take six of the eye drops, please.”

The shopkeeper nodded and bagged their items. Lyra grabbed two jars of Wizard’s Sculpting Gel from the shelves and tossed one at Wilson. “You’ll need this to style your hair. You remember how I did it?” Wilson gaped at her, and she snorted. “I can’t be that frightening.” She approached him and pushed a strand of his hair to the side. Harry watched in glee as the boy nearly fainted on the spot. “In any case, you’re much more handsome now that I’ve fixed you up. Come back the next time you need a haircut, you hear?”

Wilson nodded. Harry paid for the items and the boys left the shop. They walked down the street.

“Harry?” Wilson said dreamily.

“Hm?”

“What do you think of Lyra?”

“I think she’s great.”

“She's got very nice skin, hasn’t she?”

“I… suppose so, yeah.”

Wilson sighed. “I think I’ll marry her one day.”

* * *

It was late evening by the time the boys arrived at Hogwarts, catching a steady stream of gawks in the hallways. They entered the Common Room with their heads held high, feeling rather pleased about themselves.

Marcella saw them first. “What the fuck.”

The other Slytherins looked up and gasped. A babble of questions filled the air.

“Why are they handsome now?”

“Where did they go?”

“They weren’t like that this morning.”

“Have his eyes always been so green?”

“Wilson actually looks quite nice for a Muggle-born, doesn’t he?”

“Wait till Abraxas sees this.”

The boys blushed and walked sheepishly to the dorms. Before they parted ways, Wilson squeezed Harry’s shoulder. “Today was amazing, Harry. I’ll remember it for the rest of my life.”

Harry grinned. “You’ll come cheer me on at Quidditch try-outs?”

“You know it, mate.”

They said goodnight, and Harry went to his bed, collapsing backwards with a sigh. It really had been an amazing day. The best he’d had in long, long time.

“What did you do to your face?”

Oh. Never mind.

He didn’t even bother looking over. “Why the fuck do you care?”

He could practically hear Tom roll his eyes. “One hell of a chip on your shoulder, that’s for sure…”

Harry went hot with anger. He swung out of bed and marched up to the prefect. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but _you_ were the one who pushed _me_ away. Yes? _Yes?”_

Tom blinked. “Well, yes—”

“So who the bloody hell do you think you are, thinking you can speak to me after making it painfully clear that I’m not good enough for you? Is this all some sick joke to you, Tom? Bringing me to your favourite spot in the castle, then refusing to speak to me for two days? Playing with my emotions, my trust, my self-esteem, and then dropping me?” Harry pointed an accusing finger at the boy. “Listen to me very carefully, Riddle. You're unpleasant, and I don’t want to talk to you. I don’t want to get to know you. And I most certainly don’t want to be your friend.”

His words seemed to bite Tom, and he felt a smug satisfaction in seeing the hurt on the boy’s face.

“Harry…”

“Tom.”

“Harry, I just felt scared—”

“Shut up! Just shut up! I don’t care what you have to say!”

Tom narrowed his eyes. “You know, Harry, you’re quite the _unpleasant_ person yourself. You think you’re the only victim in your cute little story? I’ve dealt with things as a child you couldn’t even begin to process—”

“Oh, because you’re an orphan? Because your parents are buried in the dirt? Poor little orphan. Poor, tragic little Riddle. Well, my parents are dead too! I spent my childhood locked in a cupboard! I used to sing songs to the spiders on the walls! You think you know pain? I bloody well know pain, Tom. The difference between you and me is that I don’t deal with mine by hurting others.”

“You’re hurting me!”

Harry froze. He stared at Tom, who seemed to be on the verge of tears, but the boy blinked, and his face was immediately stone-cold, impassive.

“Fine,” Tom said, “Have it your bloody way then. I won’t speak to you. I won’t approach you. We’ll be nothing more than schoolmates.” He paused, as if giving Harry a chance to respond, but Harry couldn’t open his mouth. Tom pursed his lips and shoved past the boy. “By the way, your new look? It’s bollocks. Those glasses were a part of you.” He slammed the door shut behind him.

Harry stood alone in the room. He trembled, and his breathing began to speed up. He tried to hold back the panic, but it flared and took over his body. His stomach went rancid.

_No, not now. Later, later._

He went cold and hot all at once. His head was jump rope. His chest was sour candy. Harry sunk to the floor with a moan and clawed at his stomach, gasping. Minutes seemed to pass as he struggled to breathe, and he didn’t realise someone was holding him until Marcella spoke softly in his ear. “Harry, Harry. Shhh, it’s okay. You’re okay. Breathe. Breathe. I’m here.”

She cradled him in her arms, shushing gently and murmuring. Harry let out a quiet sob. He had cried twice today; it simply wouldn’t do. He focused on his breathing. In, out, over and over, until he calmed himself down. He sat up and glanced at Marcella. “How much did you hear?”

“Enough to gather what was going on.”

“What do you think I should do?”

Marcella sighed. “Harry, you and Tom… it’s not really my place, and I might be reading into things too closely, but I see the way he looks at you.” She smiled sadly. “He’s opened up to you more than he has with any of us, and believe me, I’ve been trying for years.” She glanced down, and Harry suspected there was something more to her story. “Your, well, friendship… I don’t think it’s something you should give up on.”

“He’s a twat.”

“Agreed.”

“He’s lonely.”

Marcella closed her eyes. “Aren’t we all?”

They sat together quietly on the floor.

“Marcella?”

“Yes, Harry?”

“Were you the one who told Tom what was happening the other night?”

“Hm? Oh, yes.”

Harry stared at the girl, then laid his head on her shoulder. “You’re a good person, Marcella.”

The brunette wrinkled her nose. “Your hair smells just like the other boys.”

They laughed, and suddenly Harry didn’t feel so alone anymore.


End file.
